Mistletoe
by StackofStories
Summary: Harry's always had an extreme reaction to mistletoe/Loki throws his head back, laughs. He's startled by the sharpness, more of a single note, before Loki's green eyes darken, fixating back on him. "I've come to take you home." A response to Modern Sorcerer's Changeling challenge.
1. Chapter 1

**Uh? I was so taken by _Modern Sorcerer's_ Changling Challenge that I wrote this in two days, and I hope it doesn't suck at much as I think it does. Like my other story, Egyptiote, I think this has the potential, I might add on to it, and there's a possibility I'll come back, just not now…**

 **Warning: horribly unbeta'd. Seriously. I read over this like twenty times and I probably still missed something? OOCness, gross misinterpretation of Norse mythology because I can… multiple time skips, AU!**

 **Big thanks to _RandomasRainbows_ for pointing out that little-big mistake. I apparently can't interpret family trees… this is not lookin' good for me.**

 **triggers: vomit; running over children?**

 **I hope you enjoy. *sweats nervously.***

* * *

 **Mistletoe**

* * *

His earliest memory begins at four-five.

Like an old tape reel there's a sort of whiteness where everything before four-five has happened and, somewhere in the middle (always the middle, never the beginning or the very end) his life it seems, abruptly starts.

Aunt Marge has come over to stay. She's big like a whale and has a bushy mustache. She brings her vicious hellhounds, fat with rolls, black eyes like hot coals and gleaming, pointed teeth straight from a nightmare. Because Aunt Petunia hates dogs, especially drooling dogs like Aunt Marge's, she tells Harry to take them outside.

He does.

Aunt Marge gives him no leash. Aunt Petunia shuts the sliding door. Dark clouds cover the entire sky, promising loads and loads of rain. Of course, as soon as he steps outside the rain falls in buckets.

Harry stares at the dogs.

The dogs stare at Harry.

One… two… thre— _run_!

Harry runs with the hellhounds biting at his heels, chilling growls that make his heart beat and quickens his breath. The dogs just seconds behind him.

 _FasterFasterFaster_

He's not stupid. Aunt Petunia's yard is like a cage with high wooden fences, damp wooden fences too soggy to climb, and a sopping yard with nowhere to hide, but plenty of places to slip.

But there's a tree. A single tree that Aunt Petunia refuses to cut down because it's pretty, because no one else on their block has one, because it makes the neighbors jealous. So, it's obvious he has to climb. He's always been a good climber; Harry-hunting has made him an expert.

One foot in that grove. A well-placed hand right there. Lift yourself up, and you're climbing. Easy as 1, 2, 3. Up, Up, Up, he goes until he's very near the top and his bum is rested on a sturdy tree branch.

Shivering and soaked, he looks down at the hellhounds. Their paws helplessly scratching the tree trunk. Teeth snapping around air and their great leaps as they try to somehow drag him down.

 _Hahaha!_ he laughs. His legs swinging, he sticks his tongue out.

 _Nah Nah, you can't get me up here!_

The dogs stare at Harry.

Harry stares at the dogs.

They start to prowl around the base of the tree like sharks scenting blood, just waiting for their prey to falter. An antsy feeling squirms in Harry's stomach, how long must he stay up here?

He's hungry.

There are sticky berries to the left of him, they're white as paste, small and round, he can't help pick one or two, or three or four, popping a berry into his mouth as he picks. They're sweet on his tongue, a tingle following his swallow, he can't help his appetite. He hasn't eaten all day.

By the tenth berry his stomach disagrees. The tingle in his mouth a spiteful buzz. He coughs, hacking up small white skins and thick, green liquid.

His vision blurs.

He can't breathe.

His skin burns. Hot, Hot, Hot.

He manages one great yell.

He's tumbling down to the ground, where he falls in a sickening heap: gasping, choking— _AIR!_ —loud barks as the dogs tear into him and it rains, rains, rains…

Linebreak

This is the best summer ever, Harry's sure. Dudley has a new gaming system he plays morning and night, no attention paid to him. Aunt Petunia decides his cleaning isn't up to her standards, and Uncle Vernon never speaks to him, unless he wants the mail or a beer from the fridge.

Harry's time is spent outside. His favorite spot is in the driveway. It's the perfect canvas: black as tar, very easy to see his creations. Beside Harry is a couple of rocks and a rainbow collection of chalk.

Green is his favorite color, he uses it as he writes his name in his best print. He also draws a family of stick figures, two crows, a loom, a football, a box, and even plays a game of tic-tac-toe. He's a very accomplished artist, thank you very much.

He never sees Uncle Vernon getting into his company truck. He never hears the roar of the engine.

Vernon never checks his mirrors.

Harry begins a rainbow, it's going to be a bridge. Vernon backs up.

There's a ringing sound like two car crashes. A couple of crunches. Harry's pained scream.

The neighbors come rushing out, hands covering their mouths and are children shooed back inside. Petunia is out and running, half-dressed.

Harry is on the ground, fat tears roll down his cheeks at the sight of his splintered chalk.

A little further away from Harry, in the middle of the road, are the remains of the truck. The loud blaring of the car's alarm, like a siren, encompassing the whole of Privet Drive. Vernon's company truck is smushed together from the back, gouged chunks of metal, black and silver. The windows smashed in. The white airbags ballooning out.

Vernon is alive. A couple of scratches. A sore neck. No big deal.

He comes out the car and catches Petunia in his arms, she sobs into his neck. Vernon pats her with a big hand, absently cooing calming words. His eyes on the Boy still in the middle of the driveway, crying.

He can't comprehend. He's seeing a ghost.

"Th-The Boy, he's… alright."

"Fine Vernon," Petunia says, she pulls back to give him a critical once over. "What about you, how did that even…"

"I… I… he was in the driveway, I should of …" the words are somehow gone because Vernon had looked too late, the truck had been rolling back—the Boy was there—he should've been flattened under the tires— and then the car was violently forced back, like a great gust of wind, pushed and thrown up the vehicle in the air, twisting and spinning…

Vernon's face twitches. He holds Petunia closer. "Nothing to worry about Pet, just a _freak_ accident."

Linebreak

"Tricky customer eh, not to worry not to worry, we'll find the perfect wand— here—try this one— unusual combination— holly… nice and supple…"

Harry only has the wand in his hands for milliseconds before it's snatched away, thrown over Ollivander's shoulder. "No! I would of thought—," his large, misty eyes raise to Harry's forehead. He clicks his tongue.

"No matter— I always love a challenge— here this one—yes, even more strange — popular wood up in the North— there you go—"

Harry takes the wand. Hesitant in wrapping his fingers around it. The first wand he tried, mistletoe wood, had burned him. But this wand was much, much, much different. A cooling salve like aloe seems to cover his burn and, without a command, he twirls his wand, delighted to see a shower of sparks at the end.

"Excellent! Mr. Potter! Simply excellent! You've found your wand!" Ollivander says, clapping. "Ash, an eagle's feather for its core, 10 inches, slightly bendy. It is curious though…"

Curious? Harry feels like laughing. What could be more curious about his situation? Only yesterday he had been told he was wizard and magic was real, and now he has a wand.

"Curious?" he prods.

"An old man's ramblings!" Ollivander shakes him off, his misty-eyed stare darting away. "Come along, Mr. Potter, you can pay over here."

Linebreak

There he is, tied to Tom Riddle's grave, somewhere in a place that's been haunting his dreams for the entire year, unable to move. Cedric's body a few feet away from him. Dead. But he was alive just moments ago, talking to Harry. A concept he can barely wrap his head around.

A huge cauldron is in the middle of the graveyard. Wormtail has—had a squirming bundle —Voldemort—, an ugly, helpless form of Voldemort, he dropped It in. There's a fierce hope burning in Harry, he hopes Voldemort drowns.

Now, Wormtail is adding ingredients to the cauldron, making some sort of sinister potion Harry's helpless to stop. _"Bone of your father; flesh of your servant"_ — that had been super disgusting to watch, Wormtail put a whole new meaning of giving your body to your master— and, _blood of your enemy forcibly taken; you will_ …

Wormtail went to do that. His silver dagger sweeps up on Harry's chest, slicing his shirt, but it skims his skin, it doesn't make a cut. Wormtail furrows his dark brows, attempts again. There's no blood or anything.

The cauldron bubbles in the background.

Wormtail shrieks, running toward him like some maddened bull, his dagger in his remaining hand aimed straight at his stomach. Harry watches in morbid glee as the dagger hits his stomach and bends.

Wormtail looks at his dagger, a terrified gleam in his eyes. He throws it to the ground. He grabs his wand. "Diffindo!" he slashes his wand at Harry.

Nothing.

"Diffindo! Diffindo! Diffindo! _**Diffindo**_!" Wormtail is blind in aim as throws the charm at Harry, not caring where he hits as long as he hits. The problem is it's not hitting at all. The charm rebounds or dissipates just as he reaches Harry and, all these failed attempts have Harry laughing.

"You're going to have to try better than that!" he says, between gasping giggles. "Sirius did tell me you were the weakest of them and it shows."

Wormtail's face becomes a blotchy purple just like Uncle Vernon whenever he's done something that's "extra cheeky." A blinding purple light twisted in a puke-y green hurls toward him, for a moment, he's engulfed. In another moment, he finds himself being dropped to the cemetery ground.

No scratches. No nothing. Nada.

Another laugh escapes him. He grabs his wand out his jean pocket, darting to Cedric's body.

"Confringo!" Harry points his wand at the cauldron, watching as the black cauldron blasts into hundreds of thousands smithereens(Wormtail screeches). Harry would like to see Voldemort come back from that.

"Accio cup!"

The cup flies to his open hand, and they're gone.

Everything after that happens in a blur. They pry Cedric from his cold fingers. Mad-Eye Moody takes him to a room, talking to him in a demented mixup of babytalk and harshness, cruel and soft. Harry can't stop laughing.

The entire situation is absurd.

Through giggles he explains Wormtail's attempts at trying to cut him, trying to bring back… that… that… gruesome monster, but he prevailed by some guiding hand of Luck. He made Voldy go kaboom!

He cackles when Mad-Eye pales and backs away and, draws a wand on him, screaming nonsensical words because he killed his beloved master. All their hard work flushed down the toilet, he would avenge his master, he would kill him. There's the low grumble, "Avada K—"

Then, the red light of stupefy and Mad-Eye is knocked away.

Harry loses it.

His stomach hurts from so much laughter.

There is more talking. A show of pure power from Dumbledore, and he's being led away (yet again) to Dumbledore's office.

Fawkes gives him a trilling note. Sirius is there. An arm slings immediately around his shoulders, Harry is so, so tempted to just lean on him. But he won't. Through gentle prodding from Dumbledore, and suppressed snickers, he spills the beans.

Not that there are many to spill: Cedric died, kill the spare. Voldemort reduced to some helpless infant. Wormtail failed. He blasted Voldemort's incubator to the high heavens. End story.

Dumbledore looks disappointed, pressing him: "Is that all Harry? Did Wormtail say anything alarming, out of the norm?"

Harry shrugs, the grin he's kept throughout the entire evening dims. "No, nothing," he lies.

Dumbledore sighs, the wrinkles on his face carve deep. He, Sirius (in dog form), and him finally go down to medic wing where Madam Pomfrey pounces on Harry, ushering him into the nearest bed. Dumbledore shoos the entire Weasley Family, Hermione, Fudge, and McGonagall. Then, he himself takes his leave.

He's grateful for that.

Madam Pomfrey sets a purple potion by his bedside. "Sleeping potion, three spoonfuls," she says, voice soft and soothing. It's different from her forward mollycoddling. She senses he needs alone time. He's grateful for that too. She draws soft blue curtains around his bed. Sirius rests his head on the mattress.

He waits to the count of five. He even casts a muffling charm around him and Sirius before he fully relaxes. He turns to his godfather.

 _What a time to realize things._

He knows he is no Hermione. However, that doesn't make him a Goyle either.

Sirius bumps his wet nose against Harry's open palm. His grey eyes shine with concern. Harry sighs. Any amusement he had about the whole situation is gone, there are no more laughs to be had.

"D'you know there's a basilisk in the Forbidden Forest? I released it after the whole Chamber of Secrets fiasco, Voldemort tried to make it kill me. But it said the most mental thing: _my brethren made a promise not to harm this one._ Remus bit me last year; yeah, you came upon us just a bit too late and he bit me, or tried to bite me, but it was sorta gummy, lotsa saliva. No sharp teeth? The bite didn't go through, I'm obviously not a werewolf… and, Wormtail," Sirius growls, low and threatening. "Tried to cut me with a silver knife. It went all bendy when it hit my skin; he tried cutting spells too… not a scratch…

"And, one time I was seven…" he shakes his head against the pillow. That's a story for another time.

He twists around to grab the purple potion, takes a three spoonfuls like prescribed (it taste like cough syrup), and he slips into a deep sleep.

He has that dream again, his most cherished dream.

He's in a place. A hall.

A gleaming roof covered in shining gold; heady, boisterous laughter and a great many people at long tables, covered in armor, ruby blood like paint splashed over their skin and clothes. Their many, many weapons lay all over the floor, they laugh and eat, eat and laugh. There are bloody steaks cut from the huge boar, spit-roasted in the middle above a blazing hot flame. The sharp spicy scent of honeyed mead fills the air.

The hall is so big and open. Long columns that spiral up to the night sky, small crackling fires in the middle, animals skins on the tiled floors and women. These women are long-haired and covered in armor just as the men. They lean against spears, hold bloody knives and swords in their hands, axes lain across their laps like froufrou dogs. All of them wear a sultry smile, atop their heads are large helmets with flaring, iron wings. These women laugh as loudly as the men, telling stories of their own battles won.

There's excitement in Harry. He wants to join in too. He wants to come down from his place —somewhere high, where he can see everything— and he drops his own little sword and, reaches out, his hands are small and chubby,

"What's this!" someone booms, as they pick him up. Bright blue like a summer's sky lock unto him. A flash of a red cloak. "You want to join in with the Warriors! You'll have to wait a few more years!"

He thinks the owner of the blue eyes, laughs and maybe tosses him in the air.

And then, he awakes for a lucid minute or two at most, inexplicable longing fills him to the brim threatening to drown him, because he feels… he feels as if he's forgetting something important.

Something that he can't even put a name too. A fading dream on the tip of his tongue. His eyes sting. He sniffs once, eyes landing on Sirius, curled at the bottom of his bed, before he twists over and sleeps again.

He dreams of nothing.

Linebreak

Back-to-back against Sirius, on a raised obsidian ledger, Harry is buzzing with energy; he's never felt more alive. His wand is out, sweaty against his hand. As fast as he's yelling spells, he's deflecting them.

Voldemort's merry men are like cockroaches, just as Harry's cast another body-binding spell there's another silver mask popping up. "Atta-boy, Harry!" Sirius says, his eyes wild.

The swell of pride is short-lived. A breathy laugh that echoes through the large room, it's pitchy and deranged like the Hatter.

"COUSIN SIRI!"

Harry spins around, taking a step next to Sirius. His wand trains on the insane witch, on Bellatrix. Sirius takes another step, an arm flung in front of Harry like a boundary.

"Run!"

"Sirius—"

"ICKY MUDBLOOD! THIS IS BETWEEN FAMILY!" she punctuates the words with a flick of her wand. A vicious stream of purple light.

Sirius deflects. A grin pulls at his lips. "I can handle this Harry, go!"

Harry moves half a step back. He'll be there, just in case. Around them the battle rages on. Members of the Order fight with Death Eaters. Harry tries to pull his attention into six, keeping track of: Ron, Hermione, Neville, Luna, Ginny, and Sirius.

He helps where he can. A _stupefy_ here, a _petrificus totalus_ there, flings of _reducto_ …

"Surely, you can do better than that Bella! You didn't blow Moldyshorts for nothin'!"

"Insolent cur!" Bellatrix's voice reaches to new heights.

Harry's never been so grateful for his reflexes. He's moving around Sirius, pushing him away, and taking Bellatrix's nasty whatever. It succeeds in making him step back, frozen for mere seconds. His back is close to the Veil, cold whispers in his ear, colder fingers wrap around his back: _lost son, greatest brightest son among all; all the creatures cried for you, lost lost lost, come back…_

Sirius yanks him forward.

Harry blinks up at him, glasses askew. What the bloody hell just happened? He only has a second of reprieve before Bellatrix shrieks at him, rivaling a banshee. Sirius fixes his glasses. "Are you okay?"

"Fine."

Bellatrix screeches. Green streaks of light thrown like darts has both him and Sirius vaulting from the ledge, dodging.

"Uh oh, I think we've made her mad," Sirius faux-whispers, giggling madly. His black eyes alit in unparalleled delight. For the first time, Harry sees the madness in his godfather too. He wonders if this is a trait found in all Blacks.

Sirius pops up, back into the fray he goes. Harry has no choice. He follows.

Linebreak

Harry never makes it back to Privet Drive.

The fight in the ministry marks the start of the war.

Voldemort survived the Triwizard Tournament. He is back stronger than ever. Dumbledore (before he dies) explains, he has gathered all his Horcruxes, all his disgusting soul pieces refitted in him like a puzzle.

Students begin to leave, one by one.

Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Dumbledore Army's, anyone that can hold a wand—anyone that decides to stay— is trained. Hogwarts is no longer a safe place, they are learning to defend…if it comes down to it, _kill_.

Voldemort sends his followers (not just Death Eaters: werewolves, vampires, giants, etc) on paths of destruction, total war. He wipes out wizarding communities. He tortures muggles; every morning there are stories splashed across the front of the Daily Prophet, Aurors vs Death Eaters. The death toll climbs.

For two long years, Harry is consumed by it.

And then, it comes to a head. The Battle of Hogwarts.

Voldemort calls for Harry in sweet, serpentine hisses. His whispers, somehow infiltrating his innermost thoughts: he could stop all this, everything, he only has to give himself to Lord Voldemort.

All the war, all the death, all the bitterness and sadness can be gone. He only has serve himself like a Christmas goose.

Harry can do that. He _does_ do that.

He breaks away and rushes into the Forbidden Forest. There are no tearful goodbyes to be had. There's a pang in his chest at the thought of his family crying for him—his death, but this is for the best.

Voldemort waits in deepest parts of the Forest. His inner circle feet behind him.

Voldemort stands there, clothed in black robes. Misted around the edges like his form in the Chamber. He is the ghost of Tom Riddle Junior. Tall, translucent pale-white, with cruel, glittering brown eyes rimmed with red; glossy jet-black hair combed back. Harry thinks he looks like a statue carved by the ancient sculptor, a detached coldness in his beauty.

"Ah, Harry Potter," he says. "The boy who has come to die." The peanut gallery jeers behind him.

"Yes Tom," he says. "But before we do the whole killing thing— for like the hundredth time, I lost count after your botched attempt during fourth year—," he's careful not to grin at Voldemort's curling sneer. "I have a couple of requests."

"Mudmonkey, you dare!" Bellatrix snarls at him, her wand already poised, but Voldemort raises his hand.

"Your requests? Lord Voldemort dispenses kindness on worthy foes."

Harry resists the urge to snort, or to say: I request you stop speaking in third person.

He bites his tongue, shaking his head. "No going after Hogwarts students, teachers and their families, whether they are muggleborn, half blood, or pureblood. That includes your lot." He nods at the Death Eaters.

"If they do not stand in my way, no harm shall come to them, from Lord Voldemort or my followers."

Harry eyes him. He supposes that's fair. "Swear on your magic."

Voldemort's eyes widen. He frowns. "You go too far, boy. Lord Voldemort keeps all promises."

This time, Harry does snort. "D'you swear or not. If you don't, I will go back to Hogwarts. The meeting is over. I'd love to see you try to kill me."

This is not cockiness. It's been a long two years. He has been on the tail-end of too many spells, too many situations, that should've ended his life, but here he is. No scratches or scars. Maybe a skewed sense of preservation; that's another story.

Morgana's tits.

Voldemort does it, through clenched teeth, he does it.

"Another request," Harry says innocently.

"Lord Voldemort's patience wears thin."

"It's good, I promise."

Voldemort doesn't respond.

"Use mistletoe when you kill me."

Merlin's ballsack.

Voldemort immediately transfigures a twig into a long-standing spear, a bush of mistletoe tagged around knife's end. It floats beside him. Voldemort eyes Harry speculatively, like he wants to say something more. Perhaps, the cliched any last words?

"Goodbye, Harry Potter."

Voldemort points his wand at Harry, and with it, the spears flies straight to stomach, piercing him front-to-back. Dying is a messy business, there's an acute amount of pain, particularly where the bush rests against bare skin. He's feels like he's burning, and he knows he coughing up blood, lots of it.

The last thing he sees is Voldemort's triumphant red eyes.

He's dying one moment. In the next, he's not. He's somewhere else entirely. Yup, he cranes his head around. He's not in the Forbidden Forest anymore.

He's in a very large, very elaborate banquet hall, seated at the head of the table. All the chairs are empty. It puts Hogwarts to shame. There are floating candles, flickering with green flame. The food laid out before him is quite frankly a feast. The walls are black-blue, they shine like glittering diamonds, and there are mountains of weaponry from across all ages, the floor covered in thick, low-laying mist like a dry-ice machine has gone erratic… he can't place a name. Strange to say, but there is a sense of familiarity, like he has visited once before…

"You're not supposed to be here," someone says.

"It's not like I came here on purpose…" his voice dies when he faces the source. It's a woman, who has somehow materialized to the left of him. He struggles to be polite.

She's not ugly.

Just different.

He tries to keep his eyes on the upper half of her body. Er, the normal part. Her upper-half is like a regal Merope Riddle. The same gloomy, appearance. Her small pale eyes shine bright with intelligence, and she holds her head like a queen, staring down at Harry as if he is a mere ant.

 _Should I crush you?_ she seems to ask.

"Who are you?"

"Harry Potter."

He braces for the expected. The adoration or the hate. The inevitable gushing, or the spit of distaste. And yet, he receives nothing from the woman he's facing. No gleam of recognition in her eyes, only indifference.

"No, you're not."

Oh. He gets it. She's one of those people. The type who think they know him from his head to his toes.

"Look, I am Harry James Potter, I don't much care if you believe me or not, but," he swipes back his black hair to show her his scar. "I have the scar, and I would appreciate if you tell me how I got here."

Somehow, a white spear ends up in her hands. She stabs him in the chest. Or well, she attempts to stab him, the spear bounces away.

Her expression doesn't change.

"Harry James Potter, son of Lily and James Potter, died the night of October 31st of the Midgard year nineteen-hundred-eighty-one anno domini when Tom Marvolo Riddle cast the killing curse."

"No, Boy-Who-Lived; haven't you heard and stabbing people is incredibly rude—."

"Frigga cried for days," the woman continues, like he hasn't said a word. "Her wails echoing throughout the realms. Odin, all-seeing all-powerful, could not see where he had gone. Thor pushed into such fury—berserker state, slaying all that came near him. He could not be coaxed out of it."

There's a prickly sensation in Harry. His fingers twitch. The hair on his neck raises.

"That's bad, miss, truly. I don't see how that anything to do with me. If I could just be directed out…"

"My father wove a spell so strong that it fooled nearly the whole of the Nine Realms. Frigga and Odin only have two sons, Loki and Thor. There was never a baby."

"…" Harry wants to leave, he wants to go, but he can't find it in himself to stand. His lips move, there are no protests heard.

"But there was. They loved their youngest son, Balder, so very, very much. All of the realms did. They sent their best ambassadors to see his birth. He was the most beloved in all the kingdoms. The fairest, the most gracious he was supposed to grow up to be.

"Frigga in her boundless motherly love extracted a promise from every animate and inanimate object in the Nine Realms to never harm her most beloved summer child. Except, she glossed over one meaningless little plant…"

"Mistletoe," Harry finishes for her.

This is an insane story. He can't be… a lost-child… he is Harry James Potter, son of Lily and James, and yet it makes sense. It explains so much, but so little.

"My scar?"

The woman shrugs, a smile playing on her lips. "Somehow you had been burned by the juice of mistletoe. Freyjr and I, nearly had it out on who was it that got to carry your soul to one of our realms. I suppose your Father would've gotten you in the end."

"And where are we?"

She raises her pencil-thin brows. "Hel."

Oh.

"And you are?"

"Your niece, Hel."

"Pardon?" he splutters, she didn't say what he thinks she just she said; right?

"Your older brother, Loki; my father," she waves her hand, like the fact is unimportant. "You aren't supposed to be here."

"If this is the place where people go after they die, then, yeah, I am."

His apparent niece has an excellent poker face. "I know where you are now," she studies him. "Father will be glad you've picked up seidr."

"What are you talking about…"

She opens her hand, and once again, her spear-now-staff is in-hand. White as bone, she holds it for the moment. Her pale-stare focuses on him. "Father will be coming for you soon, Uncle. Be mindful."

She quirks her grey lips, and then, she's banging her staff. Nine times.

Harry doesn't get another word in.

Next thing he knows he's being thrown to the hard ground, his stomach smarting like hell. A low groan escapes him.

He slowly opens his eyes seeing dark, grey skies. There are loud sounds on either side of him. Comets of multicolored light flying left and right.

"SILENCE!"

Voldemort.

"This is your example; this is what happens to those that go against Lord V—!"

Voldemort never gets to finish. Harry sits up and points his wand directly at Voldemort, "Avada Kedavra."

A shot of sickly-green zips from Harry's wand to Lord Voldemort.

Voldemort falls down; dead.

That's the end of that.

He lies.

It's the end of Voldemort, but it doesn't mean it's the end of the War. There's still the Battle of Hogwarts where it takes five of them to put down Voldemort's mad bitch, Bellatrix. They have to put a stopper on all of Voldemort's marginally less-insane lackeys on the battlefield.

After that, there are tears that come from the survivors'. The numbness that permeates as Harry helps levitate the dead, one by one: woman, men, and children, all into the Great Hall, where there is a frantic dash to identify them.

Harry's sure he will never forget Mrs. Weasley's wailing at the sight of both Fred and George, dead; or Sirius' low whimper at he sinks to his knees, when he sees Remus' still body, or how he pretends to take no notice of the little corner of the Great Hall where Neville's eyes are wide, unseeing… Professor McGonagall laying beside him, half her-body blackened.

Then, the months after where Harry can't help enlisting into the auror program despite Ginny's biting comments that he doesn't owe the WW a damned thing. He gave them too much already, and maybe she's right, but there's still some inkling that this is all his fault. That it's his duty to fix and heal all the hurt Voldemort spread. So, he does. It's simple like that.

(Sometimes, he likes to think about his dream, the one he had where he died, he likes to think, real or fake, that he has a family out there. A mother and father; brothers.)

Harry catches as many criminals as he can. He speaks, voice catching always, at all the funerals, all the memorials, everything they invite _Harry Potter_ too. He gives a chunk of money to charities set up. It's the least he can do.

And if he has nightmares about the callous way he killed Voldemort, about the tens of those that died in his stead, protecting him— so what? He shrugs it off. It matters little. There is still so, so much more he can do.

Until.

Until, his boss says otherwise. He forces Harry to take time off.

He's at home in Grimmauld Place, staring at the ceiling, blowing out. He feels like a kid that's been grounded. Unfairly, he should add. He knows his limits. He knows when he works too hard. He's never compromised anything. He makes sure he's in tiptop shape before he ever goes out, he turns in all paperwork on time. He never lets his personal emotions bleed into his work. He's cordial to everyone. So why, in the seven layers, has he been assigned a break?

He wants to work, whether it is in the office, or the field.

It's only been three days, and he's going stir crazy. All his friends were busy with their lives and, wanking had quickly lost its appeal.

He inhales.

He exhales.

There's a thunderous crackle like lightning that zaps into his room.

He sits up in bed. His wand instantly pointed in front of him. "Incarcerous," at his lips. A thick beam of light is shooting down from somewhere, and just as it appears, it's gone. In its place stands a man.

Tall, slender, with shoulder-length oil-black hair and bright, green eyes. He's regal in appearance with his whole green and gold scheme. Harry's comfortable enough in his sexuality to admit that the bloke's sexy as sin.

Too bad, this guy wasn't around a couple of years earlier. Harry can only guess how that meeting would've gone down.

"Who are you?" he says, his wand still on the mysterious man. "How did you get passed the wards?"

The man blinks at him, owl-eyed, lips pursed. "Your pathetic Midgardian attempts at wards cannot keep me out."

Harry grips his wand. Great. A narcissist. He _loves_ those. "Look, I'm not going to ask again. Who are you and how did you get pass the wards?"

The man leans forward, he rests his arms on the bed's footboard, giving him a surprisingly gentle smile. "Don't you recognize me, brother? I kept watch over you day and night."

He holds the man's stare unflinchingly, ignoring the curl in his belly and the whine of affirmation in his head that he does know the man. His gut instincts never lead him astray, still…

 _"Your older brother; my father… will be coming for you soon, Uncle. Be mindful."_

"Loki," he says, trying the name out. "You're… you're my brother, older brother, Loki, yeah?"

"Yes," the man says, coming to sit on his bed. Harry's wand never wavers. "You do remember."

He shakes his head. "I just remember my… er, niece Hel warning me about your visiting; why are you here?"

Of course, there are other questions like how did you find me; what was that strange light; where did you come from; this, that, and the third. Why seems most important. His questionnaire can wait a few seconds.

Loki throws his head back, laughs. He's startled by the sharpness, more of a single note, before Loki's green eyes darken, fixating back on him.

"I've come to take you home."


	2. Chapter 2

**I didn't want to create a new story since I am unsure of when I'd be able to add chapters to it, so I decided to attach this to Mistletoe as like an arc. This is like chapter 1 of the arc.**

 **This chapter is unbeta'd. I hope it isn't too unreadable.**

 **The warnings of the previous chapter apply here as well. No trigger warnings for vomit. I also take liberty with Finnish Mythology.**

* * *

 **Mistletoe: Cuckoo**

* * *

Frigga had rough hands.

Her rough hands spun her Great Wheel day after day, tireless, she stood without complaint. She made yards of glittering golden yarn.

Frigga was sharp-sighted. The pieces were never too short, too long, too tough, or too soft. Frigga was skilled. She had been at this craft since the stars were conceived and the universe had given its first birthing cry. The fibers were fused into one.

Her Great Wheel came to creaky halt. The waters outside her hall shined white under the belly of the moon. Frigga's fingers were loving. She unhooked the soft yellow tufts caught in the spindle.

Frigga stroked the tufts.

Her Great Wheel was restarted and golden thread glittered in piles around her feet. Somewhere in the distance there was the cry of a falcon.

 **...**

He had heard of Odin Borrson. Odin's court was filled with crows and falcons and wolves. Odin was a great foe if provoked.

He whispered envy and strife and dreams of grandeur. He watched in the shadows as the humans were torn by war. He delighted in the smell of chaos and rot and the dying wails of those short-lived.

He was assured in his knowledge of his warmongering. There was clarity in his blindness.

As terrible as his nine brothers were they did not take as much he did. He had provoked AllFather. He had broken far too many men of ash and women of elm.

The Destroyer was a fitting end. Louhi would be pleased.

Rough talons dug into his shoulder. His head darted to his left. The Falcon. She shined in his darkness. Her magic more subtle than his own.

"Louhison," the Falcon said.

A son in name.

"Swear fealty to House Odin and you shall grow up as one of his own."

He understood. The crows cawed. The wolves growled. Borrson stirred none.

"Your answer?" asked the Falcon.

He understood. He bended his knee, his hand crossed over his heart and his head bowed low. His nose brushed the floor.

"I swear."

Wide spaces and thick bars.

"Welcome to House Odin."

 **...**

His trainers looked terribly out of place.

Harry looked terribly out of place in an old t-shirt with a bit of dried ketchup and the same trousers he had worn for the last two days. It wasn't the best first impression.

Harry paced.

Harry never paced.

Harry went through the information for the fiftieth time. He was on Asgard, one of the nine worlds; yes, there were nine worlds that included Earth, erm, Midgard. He had two older brothers. Thor was the crown prince. Loki was the middle child. He was the youngest. His mother was Frigga. His father was Odin. He had one eye. He lost it to… "Giants," Harry muttered. "Frost Giants. Much bigger than actual Giants."

Harry edged the end of the red carpet and he spun back around. The bridge he had crossed was the rainbow bridge and the man with the golden eyes was Heimdall. Watcher.

Harry attempted to comb down his hair. It seemed like he had waited for this moment his entire life. Harry under the stairs yearned for it: he'd wake up from some terrible nightmare and his reality would be a loving family like the Weasleys.

Harry felt an awful mix of nervous and terrible with it in his grasp.

Harry under the stairs had been introduced to the wizarding world. Harry had been told his parents were Lily and James, they had died protecting him. He inherited his mother's… he had Lily's eyes. Harry cherished Hagrid's gift, the photo album filled with pictures of Lily and James. Harry frequently used it for a thread of connection and reassurance. What would this mean for him, for his life; a lie or a truth?

Harry stopped at the other edge of the carpet. He spun.

There were a lot of what-if's and holes to fill. Loki called him Balder. Harry was Harry. Harry had a life on Earth. He was an auror. He had Ron and Hermione. He had Sirius and Teddy. He had the Weasleys. He had Ginny.

Did Harry have to be Balder to keep his family; would he have to abandon his ties on Earth and what would his friends think? They'd require proof.

Merlin. Harry only had intuition in this case. That had been enough plenty of times before. In this situation. Harry paused. A chill went through him; it seemed too good to be true.

"Midgardian. You block the door," the man said.

Harry jumped out of the way. "Er, sorry," Harry said. He looked back up at the man. He was tall and slim and dark like Heimdall, he looked young as if he were in his twenties. A milky film covered his eyes. "D'you want to me to get that for you?"

The man laughed. Harry heard the phantom hiss of Hermione's reprimand. The dark dreadlocks of the man's hair bounced with the shake of his head.

"I didn't mean to assume that you couldn't – or that you weren't able – or that you needed. Bugger. Sorry."

"A mistake made by many," the man said easily. The man's eyes landed on Harry. Harry was used to staring. That wasn't the problem. It was the strangeness of the blind man's stare. It peeled back layers as if the man saw Harry.

"It is rare for a Midgardian to be on Asgard."

"I'm used to being the exception," Harry said.

The man laughed again. It was obvious to Harry that this man had business in the throne room same as him, but the man stalled. "Er, d'you need something? I can't, like, direct you to the bathroom or anything important."

"My audience with AllMother and AllFather can wait a moment," the man said. "I felt you pacing."

"Felt?" Harry asked. The man lacked the long cane he saw blind people use. Harry hadn't been stomping. He had dragged his feet from one side of the carpet to the other.

"My seidr gives me a form of sight," the man said.

"Cool," Harry said. It was cool. The man was like a bat or mole. It was innovative, a definite useful skill. Harry considered his own magic and if it would work the same if he were blind or was this an Asgardian thing?

Loki taught him the differences between Asgardians and Midgardian. When Harry ignored the Asgardian superiority it boiled down to Asgardians were the nearly perfected versions of the people on Earth. Harry avoided questions of his own biology.

Harry was compelled to restart his paces.

Harry waited long enough. Harry was ready to go in there and introduce himself.

The large doors were pushed open. The man was fluid as moved to Harry's side.

Harry rushed forward. Blood sprang to Harry's cheeks and his hands were clenched at his side. When Loki stood straight he towered over Harry. His dark green eyes were like ice chips as they set to Harry's side.

"Hoder," Loki said. "You're late."

Hoder lifted his chin. He nodded to Harry. "Brother, you know how I like to dawdle when something of interest has come up."

"You're related. Loki?" Harry faltered. Loki was peeved. The pink of his lips had all but disappeared and he hadn't so much as breathed or moved.

"He is a ward of the court. A Vanir," Loki said.

A syrupy smile seeped on Hoder's face. "As is AllMother. I was raised alongside Thor and Loki. We suckled from the same teat."

"Let us be glad it is not wet-nurses that determine family, I suspect I'd be related to the whole of Asgard," Loki said shortly.

"Your tongue never dulls."

"The same can not be said for my patience," Loki said, an edge to his voice. Loki smiled all teeth. "Come along. It is best not to keep Mother and Father waiting."

"What about his meeting?" Harry asked. Hoder had started to walk away.

Hoder shrugged. "I will reschedule. They will understand. We will meet without prying eyes, Balder." Hoder gave Harry an impish smile.

Harry dumbly nodded at Hoder. A strange affection rushed inside him. Harry hoped to see Hoder soon.

Harry fell into step with Loki. The throne room was large and narrow. The ceiling made out of silver and the sides with arches for windows but no glass. The floors gleamed bright. There was familiarity in the diamond cut of their tiles.

"It's best to keep away from Hoder," Loki said.

"I can choose my friends, thanks," Harry said coldly. He wasn't a child and he had never taken kindly to a person's presumption of knowing what was best for him.

"You are as bullheaded as our _dear_ older brother," Loki said dryly. Loki didn't push his issue. "There is another matter to discuss. Hel has informed you of the spell I cast?"

Harry squinted. "The one to make everyone forget me."

"A rudimentary simplification, but you are correct," Loki said. "I have performed the spell too well. It will take time for it to come undone."

Harry stopped. "They don't know me," he said. "That's what you're telling me."

"They do know you. I have merely hidden the knowledge."

"Unhide it then."

"I will. It will take a fortnight at the most," Loki said.

Anger buzzed in Harry. "You lied to me!" Harry said. "If I knew—"

"If you had known the truth, what?" Loki asked. "You'd stay on that miserable hovel without family. A fortnight is all. Be reasonable, brother."

"Be reasonable," Harry said mockingly. "Why am I here if no one remembers?"

 _"Balder."_

Harry stepped back. Harry would be an outsider looking in. It was cruel to dangle this in front of him.

Harry wondered if there was like a cart or a horse or a broom he could take to the rainbow bridge and if he could get Heimdall to beam him down. Asgard to be pushed out of his mind as soon as possible. Harry stuffed his hands in his pockets.

"Loki has spoken of little aside from his friend for months," a warm voice interrupted. "I'm happy to finally meet him."

It was an echo of long ago. A shadow of once before. Harry turned to see a blonde woman dressed in glittering fabric. Harry moved back to Loki's side. His throat curiously dry.

"Mother," Loki said. "My apologies. The meeting has been premature. Harry wishes to return to Midgard."

Frigga's light eyes moved over Harry. They were kind and Harry was sure he imagined the glint of concern directed at him. Harry cleared his throat.

"Er – nerves – a bit of bad roast from last night – I've never met royalty – there is really no preparation – I can stay if it's not a problem." Harry rubbed the back of his neck.

"It is no problem. A friend of Loki's is rare," Frigga said. A brief fond smile was sent in Harry's direction. It felt better than ten Molly Weasley hugs.

Frigga led them to the dais. Frigga wore a light blue cloak as Loki wore a dark green one. Harry saw a couple of guardsmen with cloaks as well.

Frigga climbed the throne steps to stand by Odin. Odin was impressive in a different way than Frigga. Odin sat in a golden throne behind him hung intricate artworks and sigil banners from the high ceiling. Two crows black as tar were perched on the throne chairs. In Odin's right hand he held a spear.

"Father. Mother," Loki said.

Out the corner of Harry's eye he saw Loki bow low. Harry copied, he kept his eyes on the both of them.

"Hello," Harry said. He waved awkwardly. "I'm Harry." That was frighteningly basic. There wasn't much to say when they didn't remember they had a third son.

"He is part of the Midgardian population able to manipulate the basics of seidr," Loki said, the corners of Loki's lips twitched. "He was a most helpful guide on Midgard. I sought to return the favor."

Odin grunted. His single eye landed on Harry. It was weighty and dismissive. Odin judged him. Harry wasn't cowed.

"No harm shall befall you while on Asgard. Our home is yours," Frigga said kindly.

Harry nodded. Loki cleared his throat. Right. "Thanks," Harry said. "I appreciate it."

"Mother. Father," Loki said. He bowed again, Harry followed. "If you will excuse us."

"Of course," Frigga said. She moved from Odin's throne. Her fingers brushed the chair. "Thor returns from Alfheim."

Loki's black eyebrows lifted. "I had thought he'd be gone longer. A sighting of the Accursed…"

Frigga's lips pressed together as Odin struck his spear across the floor. "Enough," Odin said. As level as his voice was it reverberated around them as if he had yelled.

Loki inclined his head. Harry's stare darted between the three of them. The Accursed? He was going to see his oldest brother?

Loki beckoned Harry. Loki did not speak until he was outside the throne room. Harry was grateful for the few minutes of silence. It was a chance for everything to sink in.

Harry's eyes burned and were wet. He had met his parents alive and well. Frigga was nice and warm and kind. Odin was imposing and removed and kingly. Loki was… Harry didn't know what Loki was, Loki was charming and welcoming.

Loki was also _off._

When they were in the main castle of Asgard he faced Loki. "A fortnight," Harry said. "You swear it?" he squashed down the childish urge to hold out his pinky or even to ask for an unbreakable vow.

"They and realm will know Balder Odinson oncemore, I swear," Loki said. He placed his hand on Harry's shoulder, he squeezed. Harry gave him a tight smile. Actions spoke louder than words.

"Erm." Loki thankfully dropped his hand. "Where will I be staying?" Harry asked. He hadn't made arrangements for staying on Asgard. "I haven't brought anything."

"Your rooms have been modified," Loki said simply. "You no longer need the bassinet or the myriad of soft dolls and blankets. Do you, little brother?"

"You're hilarious," Harry said dryly. Loki expressed Asgardians lived for thousands of years, Harry's lifetime was probably less than a blink of an eye for Loki.

Loki walked briskly through the dizzying amount of halls, which were bigger than any football stadium with ceilings so high it looked as if they were part of the sky. "I have rooms, as in multiple, wouldn't they be given away, or…"

"No," Loki said. "They have fallen into disuse. If Mother and Father care to ask I'll tell them I wanted you near me."

"Near you?"

Loki sighed. He gave him a single glance both bemused and exasperated. "The Princes' rooms are near each other, the same wing, in fact," Loki said. "When we reach our–"

"Hoder too?" Harry asked curiously, it wasn't bad to be near a familiar face. Harry needed the guide for Asgard and Harry felt like Loki had responsibilities to attend too.

"Hoder resides with the other wards of the court," Loki said.

Harry began to see that Loki wasn't the most forthcoming person.

Loki went to the right. He pushed open two richly decorated wooden doors. Loki gestured for Harry to make the first step, his black nails shined.

This room was big, bigger than the Dursley home. The room was flooded with the soft afternoon light. Harry had a ring of windows to his left. The windowsills wide enough for him to sit and there was a balcony. Harry was given the view of Asgard. The Bifrost. The clouds and the golden spires and towers.

"You liked the sunlight," Loki said quietly.

Harry glanced at Loki. His eyes cast off and hands pushed behind him. He wore a painful smile.

Harry nodded.

To Harry's right was his bed. If you could call it that. Asgard seemed to do everything in excess. The bed was raised and covered in royal blue and it was big like one and a half ultraking-sized beds fit into one. It was couched by two dark-colored nightstands.

"Erm," Harry said awkwardly. He'd deal with the bed issue later. "Clothes?"

Loki snapped his fingers. Harry heard the distant clack of what he was presumed was a door opening. Loki pointed at the doorless arch further down. "Wardrobe. You will be dressed for every occasion," Loki said.

"I can dress myself."

"You will struggle with the new attire," Loki said dismissively.

Harry frowned. He wasn't a pompous git or helpless. He'd figure out how to dress himself. Loki moved on before Harry had a chance to protest further.

Loki went into the other room connected to his main room. The bathroom. Harry stood next to Loki. The bathroom looked more like a posh mini indoor swimming pool with a tub… basin… in the middle and marble columns. A bit like the Prefect's room. The tub was filled with foamy water. The steam clouded Harry's glasses.

"You need bathe before dinner," Loki said. "Afterwards, you can wash at your own discretion. I am aware of how much you value choice. They will be here to help if you wish." Harry managed one look at Loki.

Then, Harry noticed three women in the tub. Three naked women in were in the tub. Harry swallowed. Harry's ears red. Harry imagined the hexing he'd be in for if Ginny found out. He winced.

"I don't need help," Harry said weakly. Harry licked his lips and made a point to look away.

"A no will serve as a sufficient rebuff. An Einherjar will escort you to dinner when it is time," Loki said. Harry had the idea that Loki was amused if he didn't outwardly show it. "Harry." Loki patted him once and he was gone.

A woman. The middle one with the white-blond hair and dark skin crooked her fingers. She beckoned him. Harry didn't think he could get any redder. He was slow to undress.

"No," Harry repeated like a broken record.

An awkward bath and a more awkward dressing later, Harry was on the bed. He was spread out eagle-style. His eyes on the ceiling where braziers hung.

A belated realization hit him just as someone knocked on his door. Harry got to his feet. He hadn't told anyone his birth name. How had Hoder known that?


	3. Chapter 3

**Yes, Harry is smaller than your average Asgardian and as for how he ended up on Earth and human, that's for me to know and you guys to find out.**

 **Reviewing and general readership is nice, but I think it is my summary that's throwing people off. So, let's try a new one:**

 **Harry is the long-lost child of Frigga and Odin, younger brother of Thor and Loki. He's about to come into his own. Watch the world tremble before his might! Beware!** **Godlike!Harry. HarryxMulti! Harry wields Thor's hammer and has magic enough to rival the Sorcerer's Supreme and Merlin and like dumbledore bashing and he's like super, super smart and you know that because he casually plays Chess and Shogi and Gungi and can solve a Rubix Cube in 4 seconds! Adoptive!AvengerFam.**

 **Ha, it won't be that story. Sorry.**

 **Warning: unbeta'd!**

* * *

 **Mistletoe: Cuckoo**

* * *

When she had missed her blood for three moons he was called. Her long blonde hair spilled down her back and her hands moved on their own and her stare was off and far away not lost.

"Protect your king," she said.

He bowed.

 **...**

Harry sat with Loki on one side of the bench. Harry ate with his hands while Loki leaned over and introduced everyone.

"The Warriors Three. Thor's closest companions," Loki said dryly.

"Hogun. He is not of Asgard. He is the most tolerable," Loki said. Loki nudged Harry to look in Hogun's direction. Hogun sat at the end of the table. A mace was near his plate. Hogun appeared to be a somewhat stoic fellow with eyes of steel and a pessimistic comment at his ready when Fandral spoke.

"Fandral. A blithering fool," Loki said. Fandral sat opposite of Harry. Blond. Fandral seemed to be the classic pretty boy, like Draco, who had no place on the battlefield if not to sing songs of triumph.

"Volstagg is past his prime. He is of good conversation when not on food and drink," Loki said. Volstagg was cushioned between Fandral and Hogun. Volstagg had a great protruding stomach and a face that was ruddy and warm. It reminded Harry of Father Christmas.

Harry looked further down the table where Thor, golden-haired and muscled, was catered to by many women. There was a woman beside him with dark hair and dark eyes and she let out a sharp laugh every now and again.

"Let Lady Sif wither from your mind," Loki said. "She has eyes only for Thor."

"I'm not – I was curious – you didn't say anything about her," Harry said. He decided to ignore Loki's smug grin. There was little harm in looking. He and Ginny were perfect. It didn't mean he couldn't appreciate.

"Is she dating Thor?" Harry asked.

Loki laughed mockingly. "She and Thor shared a brief summer tryst and he ended it when he grew bored. Thor has a small attention span."

That struck Harry as wrong. A bitter taste settled on Harry's tongue. "I guess you can deny the golden prince nothing," Harry said.

Loki raised his drink to his lips as if to hide his smile. "Careful of your words and the place of them," Loki said.

Harry frowned. He spoke his mind freely.

Harry took a drink of his… his… Harry's face turned. Whatever it was, it was strong and awful and tasted of honey and dirt and spice.

"An acquired taste for Midgardians," Loki said.

Harry pushed his cup aside. He would summon water later on.

Harry half-listened as Fandral and Thor together regaled their adventures across Alfheim and the beautiful maidens and the blunders (fuckups), of which there were many. Harry laughed. Loki was funny with his quick wit whispered in Harry's other ear. Loki painted Thor and his followers as incompetent children that tromped across the countryside, they stirred up trouble more than quelled it. Loki also had a wealth of stories about Thor. Loki was in the middle of one (Harry's soon to be favorite) Thor in a wedding dress–

"Who has ensnared my brother so and fixes him to murmur like a lover," Thor said. The boom of his laughter followed.

Harry's black eyebrows inched up. Harry's attention swiveled to Thor. Harry realized the room was near empty. There was a lack of women and guards. It left the Warriors Three and Lady Sif and Thor to gawk at Harry and Loki.

How long had they stared?

"I'm Harry, a friend; pleasure," Harry said. Brother.

"I hadn't realized Loki had any friends. Our dear Loki prefers the shadows and books," Fandral said with a laugh.

Harry shrugged. Harry eaten enough to see the bone of the animal he'd been served. "I couldn't imagine he'd tell you much with your refined taste in girls and drinking."

The room rippled with laughter. Thor the loudest. Harry answered. "Loki and I met earlier this summer."

"A mortal," Thor said to Loki. Harry was clearly not important enough for conversation. "Have you…"

"I introduced Harry to Mother and Father today," Loki said.

"You abhor Midgard."

"Do not exaggerate. I do not abhor it. Your people are slow to catch up. They're uncivilized."

 _Your people?_ Harry glanced between Loki and Thor.

"What purpose were you down there, Loki? If to stir up trouble again," Thor said.

Loki sighed, he looked bored as if they had the conversation about a thousand times. "Bodolf the Black was ages ago, brother. How was I to know he'd react so strongly to dragon's blood. You had your fun, did you not?"

Thor grunted and he eyed Harry. Thor had the same stare as Odin and Harry met it unflinchingly.

"Keep your games and tricks to a minimum, brother," Thor said. His lips cornered in a half smile. "Father has only _just_ forgiven you for last time."

"And _your_ last time? You never did tell me how Tanngrisnir and Tanngnjóstr tasted."

Thor lost his smile and Loki snickered with bright eyes. Harry was sure he heard a hammer of thunder in the background. These were his brothers. Harry only had a glimpse of their relationship and he saw why Ron complained so much.

"Here we go," Fandral said, he sprawled back on his seat. His blue eyes darted between Loki and Thor. Volstagg laughed, his belly jiggled like a bouncy ball. Sif and Hogun rolled their eyes in tandem.

Harry jolted with the violent tremor of the wooden table. Harry saw Thor's hammer on the table and when had Loki gotten a staff–

"Dinner is over," Harry said.

Hogun nodded. Hogun pulled out a tawny cloth and began to clean his mace like this was an everyday occurrence. "It is best to leave the princes to settle it among themselves."

Harry slipped from the table.

Thor's face turned a boorish red and he resembled a firecracker ready to blow. Loki was Thor's opposite: clear-faced, Loki matched with serrated words and a delighted smile. Harry was interested in the unsaid.

Loki liked to pick and prod. Loki was smart with his words and excelled in agitation, but Thor held the hammer. Harry was sure if Thor chose he could kill Loki with a blow. Thor gave Loki room to push and he responded accordingly to all the insults thrown his way.

Loki and Thor had literal lifetimes between them. Where would Balder fit?

Harry frowned.

Harry left the dining room. Harry was happy for small miracles. His room wasn't far from the dining hall and there were no fickle staircases to lead him astray.

Harry settled in his room.

"You think because they're so bloody advanced they'd invent simpler clothing," Harry said. Harry unhooked the last of his buttons and latches with a sense of victory. Harry left the clothes on the floor.

There was nothing like the feeling of being in a huge bed in a huge room filled with huge spaces of nothing.

"Great," Harry said. "I've come full circle."

Loki promised change. Harry started and ended the day in the same way. The people here were too wrapped in their lives to deal with him.

...

The castle of Asgard was transformed in the early sunrise. A sleepy hum surrounded it, like the castle was seconds and moments from being awake.

Harry wanted to know where the kitchen was. His stomach growled, agreeing.

The longer Harry meandered the more a longing for Hogwarts arose. A part of Harry waited for Hermione and Ron to pop out and for him to be dragged into another adventure, or Ginny to appear in an alcove. Her long red hair bathed in the sun's rays casting an illusion of fire and her sharp blue eyes shaded in amusement as if she knew her very presence threw him out of sorts. They had gotten so busy lately: his friends had found their niches leaving him to wallow.

"Lost or another bout of pacing?" asked Hoder. The Vanir was splendidly dressed in grey, coming from a hall opposite of Harry.

Harry hurried over to Hoder, he was glad to see a familiar face. Hoder was undeniably special. Harry hadn't figured out why.

"Lost," Harry said. "I've only just realized I don't know where anything is."

Hoder laughed. "Where were you trying to go."

"Breakfast," Harry said. His stomach made another annoyed grumble.

"Come."

Hoder led Harry to the kitchens. The kitchens lacked sleepy hum from earlier. People hurried in the kitchens. A pleasant warmth settled over Harry. Cheery hellos were thrown Hoder's way.

A small table was in the corner of the kitchen near a large fire. Harry only opened his mouth when a young woman of twenty appeared. Nanna giggled and she placed a tray of food down. Nanna focused on Harry. Harry cleared his throat.

"Nanna," Hoder said. "Not now."

Harry swore her eyes flashed green. "But."

"Do not pester," Hoder said with a smile. "You will have your chance."

Nanna frowned, she listened. Her shoes clacked against the tile floors.

"Another onlooker wanting to know of Loki's new friend," Hoder said like he anticipated Harry's question.

Harry nodded. He reached for a helping of porridge and honey.

"You aren't bothered?" Hoder asked.

"I'm used to it," Harry said. Hoder didn't ask for any follow up information. Harry was relieved.

"Does Asgard suit you?"

Harry shrugged. "It's fine." His introduction to the wizarding world at eleven and the subsequent events thereafter Harry found that little surprised him.

"And Loki?" Hoder asked.

Harry's lips pulled around his spoon. Harry had only met a handful of people and only two of them sounded cordial when they spoke of Loki, two of them that happened to be family.

"He's been like a brother," Harry said shortly.

Hoder held up a hand.

"I have yet to speak ill, peace," Hoder said. "A question only."

Harry nodded.

Harry was cautious he tried his tea (miles better than the mead) and nibbled on a scone. Hoder was his mirror. Harry was quietly amazed that Hoder didn't miss a crumb or spill a drop.

"Have you explored Asgard?" Hoder asked.

"No," Harry said. "I'd like to."

That was all the conversation needed. Harry drank the last of the tea and finished his food. Harry found Hoder's expression peculiar. It was fixed on Harry with a waxy quality as if Hoder couldn't decide between a smile or a frown so he tried for both.

 **...**

The city of Asgard was like a glimpse of the past and future. A renaissance and tomorrowland. Harry was an outsider, the tourist. Harry goggled and gawked and trailed behind Hoder.

Hoder walked slow and languid. He pointed to the shops as they passed them. Meat. Garments. Produce. Playthings. Tavern. Tavern. Blacksmith. Tavern. Brothel. And a great many shops with people and their histories and Hoder stopped to have conversations with all.

For example, Harry learned of a pottery artisan, Tyrdottir. Her youngest daughter was to be married by the end of the month. The young brothers, Brandt and Brynjar were eager to tell Hoder of their acceptance into the army. There were countless others that spoke and received Hoder as if he were family and friend.

Harry thought of kings and royals hidden behind grand castles and titles. If Harry explored the city with Loki and Thor how would the people act? Obedient? Fearful?

"They like you," Harry said.

Hoder shrugged careless. It occurred to Harry that Hoder didn't do this for his benefit.

"Why?"

"I am kind and I respect them," Hoder laughed lightly. "I hope you weren't asking for a magic recipe."

Harry was embarrassed. He had been thinking something along those lines.

Hoder laughed once more. His shoulders quaked and the silver clasps in his braids brushed together. "You are not wrong to make assumptions about Odin's court, but I am of the mindset that a ruler must know his subjects and to truly know them he must be kind and hospitable."

"You aren't going to be king or ruler though," Harry said. Hoder certainly had the kingly look about him, Hoder's clothes form-fitted and he was effortlessly confident and worldly despite his blindness. Harry drowned in his blue and gold and Asgard was so alien it was hard to relax.

When they remembered it would be different…

"Mayhaps. It never hurts to treat persons as equals," Hoder said.

A platitude truth that reverberated no matter where Harry went. In fact, Sirius had said something similar: if you want to know what a man's like, take a good look at how he treats his inferiors, not his equals.

"I agree," Harry said.

"I guessed you would," Hoder said and added, "You seem the type."

Hoder led Harry outside of the city.

"This place - The Forest - is a favored place of mine," Hoder said. "It reminds me of home."

There was also a lake, large and wide, the part Harry and Hoder saw was as clear as glass and around them were trees. They were large and wide as well, the bark dark as shadows. Harry sat with Hoder on the soft ground at the lake's edge.

A part of Harry acknowledged a soft familiarity.

Hoder's eyes were closed and his thin brown fingers dug into dirt and he breathed slow and drawn breaths, he savored the chilled air. Harry wondered how anyone found home in these surroundings. The forest seemed foreboding with the trees that twisted and clumped together and the lake was partially covered by thick white fog.

"Charming," Harry said dryly. Hoder didn't confirm or deny. "Do you bring people here often?"

Hoder shook his head slowly, "I do not."

"Why me then?"

Harry was curious. This place seemed wholly private. A paradise shared by few, or a perfectly grisly place to execute a capital crime.

Hoder tilted toward him. His eyes opened and set on Harry unblinkingly.

"It is an escape," Hoder said.

Harry frowned. That wasn't what Harry had wanted at all. This was home, it would be Harry's home. "Why would you say that," Harry said, slight scorn in his voice.

"Midgard is far off and away from Asgardian affairs."

Hoder was not wrong. Loki said he and Thor visited the 'hovel' every few centuries to see how the Midgardians were coming along. A report was also passed along to the AllFather by the Watcher. The world wars, the plagues, the sickness and disease, the _despair_ — where had the Asgardians been. Harry swallowed.

"I don't plan any grand escapes. I'll be staying," Harry said coolly. No one and nothing would deter Harry from his family.

Hoder blinked. His milky eyes shone wetly. Harry cleared his throat uncomfortably. The forest crowded him. The fog crept onto the shore.

"I'll think about it, yea," Harry said. "I can't promise anything." Harry wasn't promising anything. Hoder was going to feel silly when Loki's spell was cancelled.

Hoder nodded. A thin smile settled on his lips. Harry picked at the leaf stuffs on the forest floor. Harry's attention on the placid lake. Hoder brought out a waterskin, two black raven sewed on the front. Hoder took quick sips, he offered it to Harry. "Have as much as you want."

Harry smiled gratefully. Harry intended to take one mouthful, instead he finished the pouch. It wasn't water, it wasn't mead either (Thank Merlin). It was the nice tea from breakfast. Harry hadn't realized he had been so thirsty.

"Loki does not like you," Harry said suddenly. It was almost conversational. A buzz somewhere inside. Harry passed the empty waterskin back to Hoder. "Why?"

Hoder wore a satisfied expression. Hoder looked like Crookshanks, especially proud of the gifts he had bared to those he was affectionate with. Hermione and Harry received a number of dead rats and baby acromantulas over the years.

"Loki enjoys games and schemes," Hoder said simply. "He loses poorly."

"This is about a game then," Harry said. He wasn't surprised. Loki was proud as Thor. Harry had never met a humble powerful person, even Dumbledore Harry felt was prideful.

"Yes. Loki will be eager to regain what he has lost. He will be a touch more cautious," Hoder said. "It is often so after a humiliating defeat." Hoder stood and whistled low. A stunning white horse came from the depths of the forest. Wings rested on its back.

Harry and Hoder rode the pegasus back to the castle. Harry liked this form of travel. It was like riding a hippogriff or a thestral. When they get landed Hoder promised Harry the next time they went out he'd give Harry the reins. If Harry did well, his own mount.

The castle of Asgard was awake near the middle of the day. Harry didn't realize they had been gone that long.

Guards patrolled with swishing cloaks and marching footsteps. The court of Asgard bustled. Ladies in the groups and men in theirs with frequent looks thrown in their direction, already slivers of gossip traded between lips. Harry ignored them. Harry followed after Hoder and wondered where they would go next, perhaps, the place where the wards resided.

It was quiet. Harry glanced around. What invisible line had they crossed? The halls were empty too. Harry went forward. Hoder held Harry back. Harry looked to Hoder questioningly. Hoder pointed in front of him.

Odin came into the hall. Loki and Thor at their father's heels. Thor stepped forward and Loki behind Thor. Loki's hand was on Thor's shoulder.

"Brother," Loki said.

Thor jerked from Loki. "Father!" Thor wore a dark scowl.

Odin turned around. His good eye narrowed. "I will not have this conversation. Cease."

"You will!" Thor said, his raised voice echoed. "You will listen to me. There is talk about great evil rising; the Accursed mayhaps a falsity. Asgard should pay attention to the grievances alleged, The Mad Titan has gone unchecked in the Nova Empire. There is talk of…"

"Thor."

Thor pressed on. A dull ring from the hammer at Thor's belt. "The Mad Titan has recruited an army that grows by the hour and his attention perchance to Asgard."

"Brother, I thought you would be the last to consider us so ill-equipped to handle an upstart; Father, Thor raises fair points if—"

Odin slammed his golden staff and Harry felt sick like his insides would liquify and there was a sharp ringing in his head. "Nay!" Odin said. "I say enough. No more of this foolish talk."

"How could you be so blind," Thor said, heat simmered in his words.

"One more word and this blind man will see your coronation pushed back! Mayhaps it is too early yet for the throne if you already assume to know better than your _King_."

Thor scowled, his blue eyes flashed. Thor walked away. Another dull ring emanated from the hammer.

Loki watched Thor go. Harry was surprised by how tired Odin looked without Thor. Tired and worn, but obstinate. "Thor means no disrespect, Father. He worries for Asgard as we all do."

"Loki," Odin said. He closed his eye and nodded and strode out of the hall.

Harry looked to Hoder. A grim line set on Hoder's lips. The milk of his irises were clouded and his brow furrowed.

Loki muttered, he left after Odin.

"What just happened?" Harry asked.

"There are many things you do not know of Asgard," Hoder said.

That was obvious, Harry was the outsider. The Asgardians did him no favors. Information was firmly kept between them.

"It is said the Norns prophesied Asgard was destined for destruction through a series of events," Hoder said. "There is another tale filled with half-truths and lies; the weight of Odin's ambition will drive his house to destruction. Borr cursed Odin with dying breath. The outcome between the two are the same. Odin drove campaigns and stole the most powerful items in the universe and placed them in his vault."

"The Mad Titan wants these items," Harry said.

Hoder was slow to nod. "You are correct."

"And is the Mad Titan strong enough to get them?"

"Depends," Hoder said. Hoder fast regained his smile. "We do not need to worry about schemes and plots today. I have an appointment. You may come along."

"You're a real altruist," Harry said, he had nothing better to do. Harry shrugged and followed Hoder through the halls. Harry thought of Loki and if he even noticed his absence.

Hoder's appointment turned out to be in a training pit.

There were axes and swords and spears and dummies and people grunting and wearing heavy armor. Harry spotted Lady Sif with a short sword and a shield and she was backed by a brown woman with a long dark braid and a longer sword. "Brunnhilde," Hoder said, he was amused by Harry's slack jaw.

The dummies were ignored and the men crowded around Brunnhilde and Lady Sif like wolves. Brunnhilde and Lady Sif were back-to-back and they spoke in half-smiles and glances. They pounced when the men were close.

Brunnhilde and Lady Sif were like the Black Sisters. Lady Sif was all Narcissa, she was fluid. Lady Sif got them to attack like she wanted them too and danced around them while she struck hard blows; Brunnhilde was Bellatrix. Fierce and brutal and unrelenting, as easy as she cut them with sword, she held no qualms about getting physical.

The ground was covered with crumpled forms. A collective groan escaped the men. All of this happened in less than five minutes.

"Er," Harry said.

Hoder grinned at Harry. "Brunnhilde is the leader of the Valkyrior. She is the Valkyrie. Lady Sif is the best warrior of Asgard sans Thor and Brunnhilde."

Harry nodded. That was good to know.

"A flatterer with a tongue more silver than Loki's," Brunnhilde said. Her dark eyes set on Hoder as did Lady Sif's. She and Lady Sif paid no mind to Harry, a common theme shared amongst the Asgardians.

Hoder benignly smiled.

"Did you come to speak sweet sticky words?" Brunnhilde asked, "or to entertain Sif and I?"

"Harry wished to fight Asgard's best. I brought him."

Harry whipped to face Hoder. That was something Harry most definitely did not wish to do. Harry was certain after he witnessed _that_. Harry combed through his hair and tried for a simple smile at Sif and Brunnhilde.

Sif and Brunnhilde were parallels of each other: cocked eyebrows, arms crossed, and mocking half-smiles with an expected gleam in their eyes.

"You are Loki's friend. The Midgardian," Sif said.

Brunnhilde snorted.

"How do you fare?" Sif asked.

"Um, okay. I fare okay."

Sif laughed. Harry laughed back. Dumbly. Harry cleared his throat. "I can be target practice if you want."

Harry wasn't sure where his sense had run off to. Harry was feeling a lot like he was in front of Fleur the beautiful Veela.

Again, Brunnhilde and Sif spoke in smiles and gestures and it had happened so fast. Somehow, Harry stood feet away with a heavy chestplate and shin guards and a sword in his right hand. Harry could barely move.

"Is this," Harry tried to gesture to his armor, "optional?"

"You wish to be injured as well, do not think we will go easy on you because you are a Midgardian man," Brunnhilde said.

"I didn't ask for special treatment," Harry said irritably.

Brunnhilde shrugged. Sif was silent next to Brunnhilde, her face unreadable. Harry unhooked his breastplate and his shin guards. He kept his sword. It was heavy and unnatural and it was his only weapon.

There was no signal for go. When Harry got his footing, Brunnhilde attacked.

Harry stumbled back.

Brunnhilde's sword sliced through the air. Harry breathed half a breath and she already had her sword at his throat. Harry's adam apple throbbed with her sword point.

Harry gripped his sword tight and swung blindly. Brunnhilde dodged. Sidestepped. Brunnhilde moved to attack him again and Harry saw her from his right. Harry didn't have the speed to dodge. She swung her sword and Harry flinched. The metal tip was at his cheek. Brunnhilde held it there, Harry knew the force behind the blade and felt it as stubborn scratching against his skin.

Brunnhilde sheathed her sword. She leaped forward and she tried to punch him. Harry didn't dodge. Harry stood there with his shoulders straight and his face blank. Brunnhilde's punch was deflected.

Harry knew better and smiled at Brunnhilde's face of confusion. What worked on Earth also worked here. Harry planted his feet, he stood.

Brunnhilde attempted to punch and kick him and her attempts fell short. Deflected. Bounced off.

Harry was tackled to the ground. A surprised gasp left him. Brunnhilde straddled Harry. She snarled down at him and her powerful biceps flexed. Harry stared.

"What _trickery_ does ye employ, Midgardian?" Brunnhilde asked with the type of warning voice that told Harry she'd only ask once.

"Er, I don't injure easily," Harry said simply.

Brunnhilde unsheathed her sword. Harry saw his wavy image in its metal and Harry looked at her, unafraid. "If I separate thine's head from body, how will thou fare?" Brunnhilde asked.

"Headless and dead I'm sure, but you won't get that far," Harry said.

That was the executioner's cue. Harry heard Sif and Hoder cry out and Brunnhilde's mighty grunt. A flock of black birds flew overhead and just as the blade touched his neck it became crushed metal.

The metal shriveled up and rusted red-brown. Brunnhilde dropped it. She gawked.

"Has Harry been carried off to gallant Valhalla or icy Hel?" Hoder asked.

"No," Harry said. He was being crushed to death. Brunnhilde was heavy.

"Good," Hoder said.

Brunnhilde scoffed and went to her feet. Her dark eyes burned and she placed her hands on her hips. "Do not think this matter resolved," Brunnhilde said with vicious promise.

Harry nodded stiffly. He watched Brunnhilde and Sif walk away. Their heads glued together, undoubtedly whispered about ways to kill him. Harry sat up. Harry patted his clothes and hoped he hadn't ruined them, they looked nice and felt expensive.

"You fared well," Hoder said.

Harry lurched. Harry twisted on his hand and looked up at Hoder. He was tall. All Asgardians were tall, even the women dwarfed Harry by a good foot. The sun shined brightly behind Harry.

"How would you know, you didn't see me," Harry said.

"You are alive," Hoder said with a mimicked matter-of-fact tone.

Anger licked inside Harry. Harry's fists curled and he was on his feet with a dangerous tilt to his lips. "Why the _bloody hell_ did you volunteer me!"

Hoder tilted his head, he wore a calm expression. "A mistaken jest," Hoder said. "A Midgardian versus Asgardian warriors, I meant no harm."

Harry knew he should be angry. Harry was angry, he muttered a number of colorful curses. This was the type of thing that ended budding friendships. A blared warning sign. Harry's gut said otherwise.

Harry blew out and brushed passed Hoder. Harry walked and paused. "I don't know where my rooms are from here," Harry said over his shoulder.

Hoder was eager to rejoin him. "Would it be presumptuous to ask and join you for lunch? This excitement has whetted my appetite."

Harry shook his head. Harry was hungry too and the more he walked the more his anger receded into a pricks of irritation.

Harry thought of the remaining days he'd spent on Asgard and if all his days were to be filled with Hoder and waiting and Loki and the occasional cameos of other Asgardians. If Loki would come back to him and say he tried his hardest. Frigga and Odin would never never remember him.

Harry frowned.

Harry tried to remain optimistic about his remaining days. But Harry had lived his life for eighteen years and he knew the bloody luck that clung to him to like the plague.

 **...**

He didn't leave her side even as she spun her Great Wheel and her belly grew and her yarn glittered all the more. She liked to sing while she spun, a low melody sung in her mother tongue of Vanir lullabies.

She encouraged him to sing too. His bawdy songs of death and women and glory and war and rest made her laugh and she told him she reminded her of husband in his youth.

Sometimes her singing turned erratic, her laugh dried up and she wept uncontrollably over her sons and wished them happiness through all their tangled strings. She cried over her middle child, little lost boy that liked to play; she cried over her eldest, her husband's shadow; she cried over this one, beloved by all; she cursed the Norns and their cruel fate.


End file.
